


la langue de l'âme

by Xirdneth



Series: Hannictober 2017 [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: & in will's thoughts, Empathy, Hands On Teaching Methods, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannictober 2017, Hannictober Challenge, Jealous Will, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Sexual Tension, Tutoring, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Loves Hannibal, but it's obvious in their behaviour, little bits of, piano playing, they never say it directly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: Will, upon hearing Hannibal playing the piano, asks to be tutored. Things get a little... intense.A late addition to the Hannictober prompt "Moonlight".





	la langue de l'âme

“When did you learn to play?”

      It is just past one and the mid-afternoon light is billowing in, filling the room with light. It illuminates both the piano and the man at it, Hannibal Lecter glowing in the sunlight. Will marvels at how it splays across his cheekbones, his lips, how it dances along his fingers. How his hair shines both gold and silver. He could be carved from gilded marble, or something even higher, Will thinks. He averts his gaze to Hannibal's hands, his own fingers idly tracing the curve of the piano, avoiding the ivories. “When I was a young man. Florence was not only where I fell in love with art, but with music.”

      “Somebody inspired you?”

      Hannibal smiles privately to himself as he plays, _Clair de Lune_ rising from his fingers and mingling with the daylight. “Yes. A pianist who provided the music for a gala I attended. His mastery of music was the most enjoyable aspect of the evening, and I was determined to achieve the same level.”

      “Did you become his student?”

      “I became many things to him,” Hannibal raises his eyes to briefly meet Will's, lips quirking mischeviously, before he returns to focusing on his fingers, “a student among them.”

      A pang of something Will doesn't want to acknowledge lurches in his chest, hot and sharp. It tastes like metal when it claws its way up the red tunnel of his throat, and like acid as he forces it back down until it sits heavy in his chest, snaked around his heart. Tight. To mask it, he emits a thoughtful _hm_ , accompanied with a careful nod. “I imagine you were an ideal student.”

      “He certainly thought so. I was an exceptionally fast learner, as you can imagine.”

      He can. One of Hannibal's most admirable, and irritating, traits is his ability to adapt and learn far easier than anybody ought to. Will isn't near so ignorant as to believe this ability is the sole factor of Hannibal's skills; his adaptability is equal only to his dedication. When he closes his eyes to savour the music, he envisions a younger Hannibal devoting entire nights to studying sheet music, replaying the same song over and over until it is swallowed into his soul. He sees the figure of an unknown man, the pianist, shadowing him. Chest to back. Fingers moving down the slope of Hannibal's shoulders to rest on his chest, chin resting on his head… turning to place a kiss on his hair—Will snaps out of it with a sharp jolt, the metal taste now acidic on his tongue. Hannibal's music is the only thing that soothes the bizarre surge of anger that claims his chest, calming it to a lesser burn.

      Will's tongue explores his mouth as he attempts to formulate an adequate response, when an idea blooms in the arena of his skull. “I wonder if you would be as talented a teacher as you were a student.” If the subtle trace of bitterness in his voice is detectable, Hannibal deigns not to acknowledge it. Instead, he pauses in genuine consideration of his inquiry, turning his face to meet Will.

      “I am confident in my ability to nurture potential until its highest form. Musical potential is no different.” Hannibal parts his lips as if to continue, but decides against it, re-designing his next words. Will wonders what even _Hannibal_ decided was inappropriate to say at this moment. Another time, perhaps later this evening, he will ask. “Would you be interested in my tutelage, Will?”

      “Why not?” Will shrugs, lips twitching with a small smirk. “You could argue you've tutored me before.” In the art of murder rather than music, of course, but the point stands regardless. “And I'd like to learn.”

      “Then I would be happy to tutor you.” Hannibal's expression is subtle but his pleasure is radiant, moonlight pouring from the lining of his skin. When he slides along the piano bench, a movement that ought to be graceless, it is as smooth as the sea, punctuated with a welcoming pat. “Please, sit.”

      Will obeys, taking up what's left. They are pressed side to side, their warmth feeding off of one another and growing in size, filling him to his fingertips.

      “You had a piano in Wolf Trap,” Hannibal notes, their hands dangerously close.

      “Came with the house.”

      “Ah.”

      “I did attempt to learn,” his hand not aligned with Hannibal's rises to rub at the scruff of his chin, thumb caressing his scar, “but I couldn't comprehend the sheet music, and I had no time to take lessons when I was busy giving them. I gave up on it and let it gather dust. I can still play a clumsy version of _Fur Elise_ , though.”

      “I see. Sheet music is a difficult language to learn for many, but thankfully it is not the only manner of learning, nor is it the true language of music. We shall try a different technique.”

      “What is?”

      “Hm?”

      “What is the true language of music?” He is genuinely curious. It helps that Hannibal is enchanting when he talks about his passions.

“ _Soul_ , my dear Will, which you understand better than anybody else.” Any lingering feelings of bitterness dissipate at the fondness enriching Hannibal's voice, replaced by a flush that colours his cheeks peony pink. “I am confident that under my tutelage you will understand music like never before. Would you like to start with _Fur Elise_?”

      Will shakes his head. “No.”

      Hannibal raises his eyebrows, head quirked. “You have a piece in mind?"

      “ _Clair de Lune_.”

      “I had thought you might like it. It's a lovely piece.”

      “It's beautiful,” Will says quietly, “means _moonlight_ , right? Or something like it.”

      “Yes. A fitting piece for us to play together, wouldn't you say?”

      Will hums a singular note of laughter. “It really is. How do you intend to teach me if sheet music is off the agenda?”

      “In a far simpler manner,” comes Hannibal's croon as he removes himself from the bench. Hollowness resides where he once was, and the separation feels cold. Will feels an emptiness worm its way into his chest before it is quickly exterminated, a tag-team killing by both Will's own rejecting psyche and the sudden rush of warm as Hannibal moves to shadow Will at his back. His breath brushes Will's curls, the curve of his ear, when he speaks: “Move to the middle.”

      Will does as told, taking up the space, claiming it as his own territory. It feels odd to sit where Hannibal so often spends his time: the echoes of previous nights momentarily possess him before fading away, stomped by the present. Hannibal's hands rest on the firm scape of Will's shoulders, fingers curled, tips meeting his collarbone. The sharp inhale that rushes through between his teeth is not deliberate, and he releases it after a brief imprisonment in his mouth, before Hannibal can notice. Knowing the man, he already has, much to Will's chagrin, but that is something to ruminate over another time.

      “Close your eyes,” his voice is a susurrus, closer now to the shell of Will's ear. A shudder is repressed, locked tight in his body. Will allows his eyelids to fall heavy and close, though not without a hesitation (he is still never one to thoughtlessly obey the other, even despite the overwhelming swelling of their relationship's intensity the past year; it is perhaps the last remaining shred of self-preservation that remains, and not one that he plan on sacrificing). “Good. Put your hands on the keys.”

      And so he does, ivories cool beneath his touch. “You're going to let me intuit the music?” A difficult feat, of course, but not an impossible one; it does not even require his unique neurological makeup, for many have accomplished the exact same in the past even _without_ the burden of lingering mirror neurons.

      “With my guidance, of course.”

      “Seems a little underwhelming in comparison to your _other_ teaching methods.”

      “Do you think so? I find this to be just as _involved_ as any other method.” Is it his imagination, admittedly over-active at the best of times, or has Hannibal gotten even closer? Each hair on the back of his neck stands to attention as the ghost of Hannibal's physical presence glides over his skin, his warmth all-consuming. They are almost touching, chest to back. Will is revisited by his earlier flash of imagination, that sickly image of Hannibal and his tutor, and his muscles harden. No doubt sensing the sudden tension claiming Will, Hannibal presses his thumbs into the pressure points of his shoulder blades in an act of mollification. “Are you uncomfortable with our physical closeness, Will? I can remedy that.” The lack of separation illustrates Hannibal's knowledge that it _isn't_ that which bothers him. Will wonders if Hannibal knows. _Probably, the bastard_.

      “No. It's fine.” Indeed, the massaging of his pressure points proves to be _incredibly_ helpful, tension melting away, dripping down his back and turning to nothingness. “Just keep going on with your lesson.”

      “Of course.” The massage stops, unfortunately, and Hannibal returns to his previous spiel. “As I was saying, this is much the same level as all my other methods. At least, I intend to devote myself as wholly to this as I do to any other. It's merely the subject matter that is different. Now, remember the moonlight. Remember _Clair de Lune_.”

      So he does.

      “Let it possess your mind. Every corner. Do you hear each note? Each tone change, the rise and fall of pitch?”

      “Intimately.” His own breath has lowered into a murmur, lips barely parting to release each word. He feels almost like he could fall asleep.

      “Now imagine my hands. Imagine me playing.”

      Hannibal's fingers—the ones conjured within his skull, not those which rest, physically, upon him—playing on the keys, summoning sound into such potency that he dares make it tangible.

      “Now do as I do.”

      A golden pendulum swings: Hannibal's hands become his own, each finger seeking the necessary key as if instinctual. When he sinks his fingers in, reality morphs with fantasy, and he allows his empathetic memory to guide his hands like golden puppeteer threads. Without the blood and gore (and the resulting cocktail of unpleasant emotions that came with it) his empathy is feather-light. Even mistakes, few as they are, are nothing to stress about. Hannibal merely guides him as necessary, his fingers moving Will's, lips hovering near Will's ears as he does so.

      It is a moment that borders euphoria, this instant of sheer synchronicity. When the song reaches its climax, Hannibal's “ _open your eyes_ ,” is naught more than a whisper. Will does as such, though in his mind's eye the memory of Hannibal still plays, and watches as his hands intuit each necessary note. It's strange, almost unbearably so, almost prompting a bout of dissociation. He shouldn't be able to play so quickly, yet bar the few mistakes, he does a relatively faithful rendition of _Clair de Lune_. It trails off to its finale and he sits, motionless, almost in awe of his own action. No. Not because of him. He is in awe of _them_ , how even now Hannibal brings out Will's potential to startling highs. Hannibal's ego must be even higher than heaven now.

      Will, slightly breathless, turns to face Hannibal, inquires “was that alright?”

      Hannibal, resting on one knee, reaches for Will's face with one hand (the other propping him up, resting on the bench), and cradles his jaw. Hannibal's lips are parted wordlessly, eyes boring straight into his. They are close enough to kiss. The awe is tangible.

      “You were _terrific_ , Will.”

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd & late to the hannictober party (as per yoozh) BUT! i hope you enjoy it nonetheless. if you did happen to enjoy it, kudos & comments are always, always appreciated. nothing brightens my day more than it. you can also find me on tumblr @bedannigram <3 also forgive the clumsy french title - i used google translate!


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